Wasteland Chronicles
by Jess Gulbranson
Summary: Some tales of adventure from the earliest days of the Waste.  Originally Wasteland fanfic, they have been lightly updated to fit in the Fallout universe.  Sort of.  Please read and review!  Thanks!
1. Supreme Jerk

**These Wasteland stories were written back when I was just a young man, back in- well, let's just say it was in another millennium! Obviously they're rough, and not the best writing, but now, looking back as a published novelist, they ain't half bad! I've tried to reconcile some of the references to fit with the Fallout universe, but you may have to just grin and bear it if anything doesn't ring true. I'll be moving on to some fresh New Vegas fiction once I'm done uploading these chapters, and who knows, maybe the story will continue...**

SUPREME JERK

I pulled into New Vegas on a DJDT American "Volcano" Hovertank- the boutique edition, came as a matched set with an equally boutique suit of Johnson Servotech power armor. I had an experimental Meson Cannon with Ace Maloney's name written all over it. I got into town only to find that somebody had already croaked him. How was I supposed to terminate someone who was already three feet under? All that 'extreme prejudice' gone to waste.

A man in power armor is hard pressed to squeeze any juice from the grapevine, so I took the regulation flak-vest from underneath the gunner's seat of the Volcano. It was safety-orange. If that wasn't enough to mark me as a wasteland warrior with balls or a death wish or both, I don't what was. Shouldering the Meson Cannon, I headed up the main drag towards a sidewalk bar I knew from word of mouth. It wasn't exactly a bar; it was more like a cordon. Hemp ropes and barbed wire defining a rough octagon around the bartender who was orbited by a bunch of tiny makeshift tables like liquor-bearing satellites. He was a big Jamaican with a rudimentary steel prosthetic lip, and it gave his voice a strange metallic lisp as he motioned me over.

"What ya poithon?"

"Rum, Captain Joe if you got it." He hesitated for a moment, a look of doubt on his sparkling eyes, until I pulled out a couple wads of prewar twenties and peeled a generous amount off. I put one on a little green table where his cashbox was, and the other I stuffed into the breast pocket of his dirty mesh shirt. "And some conversation."

He shook his head, and handed me the bills back with a look of disgust. "That kinda talk'll get ya in a world of hurt. Thave it for thomeone elthe." He handed me a glass with a teeny shot of the Captain's rum, all that twenty would buy. I shifted my Meson on the leather belt I kept it on, and the Jamaican laughed. I looked down and realized that he had a tripod mounted M-60 beneath the long plank that served as his bar. It looked like he had jury-rigged it with the foot pedal from a sewing machine. All he had to do was put his weight down a little, and a would-be tough customer would be exploded like a blood sausage. "Don't even think about threaten I."

"Alright, give me a bottle of squeezin's." I put a rejected twenty with its brother, and he handed me a battered bottle of the milky squeezin's.

"Jah love, my brother," the barkeep laughed.

Downing the rum in one shot- it was excellent- I stowed the bottle of Snake Squeezin's, and returned the shot glass to the plank, the barkeep's metallic grin not wavering for a second.

The pre-Strip- Northside- was fairly empty for midday. I expected to be bothered by punks the moment I stepped out of the Jamaican's little bivouac, but I could only see isolated pockets of them in the distance. Since New Vegas was relatively intact, as cities went, there were a lot of people there, mostly battling tribes and gangs, and no one power had risen to the top yet. The street toughs usually have enough sense to lay low when they smell heavy action, so I figured that something was about to go down in this burg.

My luck was paying off today- no sooner than I had started walking along the street, I heard a raspy voice croak out "Spare change, mistah?"

I looked off between two large brick buildings and into what resembled a vision of hell more than an alley. Looking at the figure who spoke, I thought he looked right at home. The hobo was lanky, and he'd obviously been tall at one point in his life, until his spine had folded rather neatly over from some congenital deformity. He was bald, his head covered in sores, and his face, well, his face actually made me feel a twinge of pity. Pitted, pockmarked, covered with the lines of despair. Lucky for me, I noticed that his mouth was raw and red, and the stubble around it was bleached a spotty orange, one of the two telltale signs of a habitual Snake Squeezin's drinker. The other one was rigor mortis. "Spare change, mistah? Come on?" He was rubbing his hands desperately, and his face went wide when I pulled out the bottle of squeezin's.

"Ah ah ah, naughty." His face fell when I snatched the bottle back out of his reach. "Tell me something first."

"Aw, mistah, you don' wanna, oh no, I mean, I , Come on mistah..." He seemed to grow breathless for a moment, but he was just saving up for the squeaky exclamation that followed. "SQUEEEE-ZIN'S!" He fell down, exhausted. That was nasty stuff. The hardest chem addiction in the world wasn't like this.

"What's going on in this town? What's up?"

"Big reckoning, mistah. Nothin' for a fine walkin' dude like yaself."

"Reckoning? What the hell does that mean? Freddy and Fargo at it again?"

"Naw,naw,naw," he said, shaking his head. He leaned forward conspiratorially, and whispered "Ro-buts. Deadly robuts."

I realized that this old hobo was telling the truth. He was scared to death, and not just of me. I decided to press the matter just a little.

"What do you mean, robots?"

"Deadly robots, mistah! Watch out! They sneak right up on ya, like a tank with an armored warrior! Oh Gawd!" He sneezed heavily, and wiped a huge green string of snot on his sleeve. "And then there was another fine walkin' dude like yaself."

I froze.

"What do you mean like me?"

"Nothin', nothin', aw it's nothin'. Squeezin's?"

I gave him the bottle. He snatched it right away, and was worrying the cork (actually just waxy wads of bandage) from the bottle, all the while mumbling in his strange way. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, come on, you ain't never done ol' Billy no harm, not like that dude, oh no, ain't never seen somebody move so fast, aw no. Shucks, puts hair on your chest, he's a real badass. Squeezin's, squeezin's..." He tipped the bottle back, downing it in one gulp.

A strange light grew in his eyes, and he drew himself up as tall as his spine would let him. "It's Latimer." His voice was stronger, much clearer than his usual whine. "There's the man. There's Latimer!" He pointed behind me, back behind the alley, before falling over into a squeezin's coma.

I spun, looking for Latimer, who must have been the 'dude like yaself', but I didn't see anything, nothing but a fleeting shadow in the alley on the opposite side of the street.

The rest of the day was uneventful. I spent it pumping information, and having no luck. I did run into the deadly robots the hobo had mentioned. They were just Sentry Bots of different Mark numbers, and in crappy condition. No one took pride in their robot death machines anymore, just letting them do their thing with no upkeep. But I wasn't about to take in the abandoned metallic darlings. Not when they took potshots at me like a good killer robot is supposed to! A well placed shot to the actuation cluster takes out just about any model of Sentry Bot. The exact spot is a secret though, and I'm glad I knew it. Standing in the middle of a Vegas street, in the middle of a smoking pile of Sentry Bots, I heard a strange noise. It was clapping. There were a bunch of half-assed tribal punks huddled in a deadend alley. The robots must have cornered them. Besides clapping, they were smiling with relief and admiration. They stopped smiling when I leveled my Meson Cannon at them, and fired. Then the only sound was the Zzzip! of the Meson and the dry sound of human disintegration. No witnesses. I had agendas.

Heading back to the Volcano for the night, I was plagued by thoughts of something the hobo had said. First, the fact that he mentioned someone like me. There was no one _like me_ in this area of the Wasteland. No one else from SourceGroup was qualified to tackle Florida, much less Vegas. And there were no active agents on longterm assignments. I had clearance, and Mission seniority. I would have known anyone else active. Maybe a few Vault rejects and Enclave operatives made it seem like there were old-school badasses wandering the wastes, but they just didn't compare.

So why did the name Latimer sound so familiar?

Everyone always thought that Ace Maloney was the luckiest guy around. I don't understand why; if he was so frakkin' lucky, then why did he have to live in the Wasteland? Whatever luck he did have, it ran out in Vegas before I got there. That morning, after I woke up, I pulled myself out of the Volcano's bunk, and walked into town. I found out then just what happened to the doomed Ace.

He had his head blown off.

I ended up in an open-air bar on the roof of a large building. I was talking to a Nomad who had wandered in from the desert for a beer and some ammo.

"... and like I was saying, I was just getting some nines for my Uzi when these Rangers come strolling in like they own the place-"

"Rangers?" I interrupted. "Desert rangers?"

"Yeah, desert rangers, so like I was saying they come strolling in like they own the place, buy all the nines and 45s, all the grenades, and pawn a bunch of useless crap on the poor bastard who runs the place. That's when I noticed that Maloney was with 'em."

"How long ago was this?"

"Well, about a week ago. Maloney was there, his usual cheeky self, hittin' on the shop guy's daughter, that sort of thing. Pissed us regulars off, ya know?" He tossed his head back and ran a hand through his dirty hair. I nodded.

"Yeah, I know it."

"So anyway, I was saying-"

"Wait a second." I interrupted again, and ordered another beer. "How did you know Maloney?"

"I used to run with him four, five years ago. I got tired of the lucky son-of-a-bitch. He never got hit! And always rippin' a clip... it's a wonder we ever made any money, what with his ammo cost. But lucky, I tell you."

"If he was so frakkin' lucky, then why did he live in the wasteland?"

"Dunno," the nomad shrugged. "Anyways, we split a while ago, no hard feelin's, and that's how I knew him. Guess he's got a good thing goin' with those Rangers." I cursed under my breath. Always faggot rangers interfering in other people's business. They had the sophistication and skill of those nutter survivalists that barely made it through the nukes. Unfortunately, they were just as resouceful, which meant they were just as armed. I always did my best to stay clear of Desert Rangers.

"Alright, skip a bit. How did Ace get it?"

The nomad, Jerry was his name, actually looked a little grieved, and it took him a second to get started.

I got him another beer, and that primed the pump.

"Well, see, I was in Spade's casino, just pumpin the slots with some money I took off a coupla banditos near the rail camp. And in walk the Rangers sure enough, with Ace. They were packin' serious heat, not just carrying it, they were wielding. They barged in, knockin' people over, makin' crude jokes, a real bunch of jerks. They got to the middle of the casino when the bouncers came over, and then the fireworks started. I was hiding behind a big slot machine, that's how I saw Ace. He was leanin' up against the bar, which was empty. He musta forgot about the bartender or just plain didn't care. The bartender was just a little guy, bald and friendly like a grandpa. Well, Ace is standing there just as cocky as ever, about to take a shot at a big bouncer, when I see the bartender's bald head pop up over the bar, and it was followed by a Mac 17." Jerry swallowed. "The little old guy grinned and pulled the trigger, full auto. Ace's head just exploded, spraying everywhere. The other rangers got the old guy, but... there was no more Ace. When the smoke cleared, I didn't see anybody living. The rangers were gone, and I just hightailed it on out of there. Just practical, you know." He tipped a beer back, but it was empty, and he started to get up.

"Hey, thanks for the info. Sorry to hear about Ace."

"No problem, ya know..." He shrugged. "Negative sweat. It wasn't like he was Supreme Jerk or something."

"The Supreme Jerk is a frakking myth and you know it." I only noticed when he pulled away that I had gotten up and grabbed him.

"Hey, hey, jeez... I know. Just makin' a joke, ya know. No such thing as Supreme Jerk." He brushed himself off and let a hand slip to his clip pistol. "Damn, lay off the coyote chew."

I sat back down as he left. Why did that bother me so much? Maybe it was just I didn't like the idea of fairytales and myths... we had enough problems as it is, and enough assholes with guns and know-how. Nobody out there had anything on Source Group operatives, which made the Supreme Jerk myth just a little bit more annoying. The myth went that the Supreme Jerk was immortal, a hardcase from pre-Wasteland days who could shoot, fight, drink, and repair a toaster better than any man alive. I knew the classics; He-man, Batman, Superman, Tick. They were chock full of stuff like that. The Supreme Jerk myth was supposed to be sinister, and that was pretentious and annoying. It must have just been that that bothered me. But why did it seem stranger than that? Why did a combo of superhero and bogeyman that was exaggerated by each generation of new squeezin's virgins shake me up so much? It couldn't be more than that.

I would soon learn that it just might be. I was on my way to see Ol' Billy.

I found Ol' Billy in the alley where I first met him, the bottle of squeezin's that I had bought broken on the ground. Billy was face-down in a pool of blood. One more semi-reliable source of info gone. Kind of sad, though his was a life I would gladly escape from in death. I flipped the corpse over, not expecting what I saw. I figured that he had probably just hemorrhaged in the night, from squeezin's, no doubt. I didn't expect his head to be half torn off, is face in a rictus of pain and fear. I looked at the old face. He didn't even find peace in death; the face was scary itself. I checked his limbs. They were already in rigor, so he must have died in the night, alright. Then I checked the wound, and that's when I saw something strange. A large portion of the top of his head was gone, the tearing of the skin suggesting that it had been smashed off. That in itself wasn't unusual; any chemmed-up tribal could come along with a sledgehammer and knock someone's block off. But not with a... my God.

I had seen a few strange markings near the wound, which would have been the print of the object that killed him. And at first I figured it was just some large pipe with and odd fitting on the end. I was thirsty suddenly, and when I brought out my canteen, something clicked. I put the rubber cap assembly to the wound. The black rubber nubbin of the canteen matched the prints of the wound.

This was scary. I know I didn't do it. The Volcano had perimeter alarms that would have gone off if I were sleepwalking. And the canteen wasn't just any old model. It was unique to SourceGroup, made back in the '60s for contaminated waste areas. I'll say it again; there were no SourceGroup agents in Nevada. I was the only one. And the chance that an agent would have left his special Hermeticseal canteen was very slim. And who had the strength to tear someone's head off with a canteen?

Before I knew it I was running, God knows why, to anywhere. Thoughts in my head were spinning wildly. I was all the way towards the middle of the city when the ground in front of me erupted. I tumbled to a stop, coming to rest in a low stance with my meson cannon out. About ninety feet ahead, I saw a giant robot. A nightmare of prewar genius combined with the twisted dream of the wastes.

The giant thing, a huge scorpion-like robot painted a gaudy red, yellow, and gree, was poised in the middle of the street, its enormous tail tipped with an energy weapon of some unkown designation. That was what knocked me down; it was big. As I saw now that I wasn't running headlong, the rest of the street ahead of me was cratered and pockmarked from the Scorpitron's fire. I took a couple shots at it, towards the head, tail, and servo-motors, but I must have been in bad shape, because I didn't hit the damn thing once. It fired at me again, and the only way to dodge shots like that is in great big leaps and bounds. I kept doing that, trading fire with it, and I noticed that I was just jinxed. I couldn't hit it worth a damn. I was getting frustrated, and that meant it would probably hit me sooner or later. Probably sooner. I started retreating in leaps and bounds, still shooting, hoping to get a good shot or two in.

As I fell back, I noticed something. The Scorpitron had advanced during our fight, trying to get a clear shot. It had moved down the street about two buildings, and one of the buildings it faced looked familiar. I cursed as I retreated out of the Scorpitron's range of fire. That building had been described to me by my SourceGroup logistics agent. I could hear him now.

"In prewar days, this building was tenanted by a rare and exotic arms dealer. I know most everywhere has been looted, but you might check anyway while you're there. Some rare and exotic arms don't exactly look like they are. You might get lucky."

Of all the places to put a Scorpitron!

I knew that I could get in, though. I don't know any killer robot that can't be taken out by a properly skilled fighter in Johnson Servotech power armor. It's just a fact of life. I suppose I'm overly proud, because I'm Johnson too. Johnson Servotech was my Granpa's company. I'd have brought my hovertank in to do the job, but I'd have attracted too much attention, and I didn't want a lot of questions. As soon I settled whatever mystery it was that was bothering me (and looted that building!), I was out of here. Maloney was already dead, and there was plenty to do in the other surviving pockets of humanity all over the country.

I beat feet back away from the Scorpitron, and I left Vegas. I went back to the Volcano and waited. I wanted to sort some things through. But wouldn't you know it, I fell right asleep.

That night I had terrible dreams. My granpa, who I remember as a tall man with long, curly white hair, was chasing me through the desert. Like all good nightmare monsters, he would pop up out of nowhere. It went on for about ninety minutes- that's how long dreams usually are- and when he finally caught me, I woke up with a scream on my lips. I never really liked my granpa. He never actually did anything, really, but he was always scary somehow. And he told scary... that was it! I pounded myself on the head for being a fool. He always told me scary stories as a kid, and they were always about the Supreme Jerk. I could have kicked myself. I was so worked up because I was remembering the stupid stories my creepy old granpa told me.

I was laughing as I assembled the inner suit for the power armor, laughing as I put on the actual armor. I laughed while I ran a diagnostic, laughed while I hooked the meson cannon into the suit's nuclear battery. In fact I laughed all the way to New Vegas, shooting everyone I saw. No witnesses. I saw the Jamaican barkeep, and before his first 'Jah' I sent him spinning into a dance of death.

I laughed all the way to the Scorpitron, and I was actually beginning to wonder if maybe I was going mad. What was there to laugh about, really? I got into the fray of battle, the Scorpitron firing at me, me firing at it. We both took some hits, my shots bouncing off it and its shots knocking me back, but I got to my real goal. The doorway of the old arms building. I was about to enter when I saw something absolutely insane.

I thought I was going crazy? No, this fellow was purely bonkers. He was young, late twenties, maybe, with curly brown hair and no armor, just a coverall. He was running forward, right into the Scorpitron's way. It was only when he did a very strange thing that I noticed something was just a little more out of the ordinary than I thought. He was armed with a hand mirror.

Confidently running forward, the man began flashing beams of the bright morning sun from the mirror at the Scorpitron. And it worked! The Scorpitron wasn't aiming right, and its tail was even pointing backwards. This guy was luckier than Ace! Then he did something that showed it wasn't luck. He did something I couldn't even do. He did a standing high jump all the way up to the Scorpitron's head. I had powerful muscles and reflexes, from nerve accelerators at SourceGroup and, more importantly, experience. But this guy moved like a flash. He was on the Scorpitron's head, tearing away at wires and actuation clusters with his bare hands. Nobody could do something like that but the Supr- I cut myself off before I thought that stupid name. I caught myself again, to think 'But who else could do it?'

I barely got my thought together before the Scorpitron exploded.

I woke up in darkness. The power armor had failed, and I didn't have helmet sensors, but more importantly I didn't have power from the suit to lift the beam and rubble that pinned me. I thought about what had happened. The Scorpitron exploding must have knocked me inside the building, which then collapsed onto me and knocked me down into the basement. Great.

After a moment my eyes adjusted, and there was a trickle of light from the rubble. I noticed a glint to my right. Turning my head to the right as far as it would go, I saw it. The Proton Axe.

It was just that; an axe. But it was also an energy weapon, and considered one of the most sophisticated technologies developed before WW3. It would cut through anything. And it was only two feet away. I reached, but the joints of the suit, frozen without power, stopped the motion of my arm. I couldn't reach it. I would have screamed, but I heard my name called.

"Sonny, sonny, wake up goshdarnit it!" It was the weird, gravelly voice of my grandfather. I didn't even bother to look, because I was sure that I was hallucinating. When the voice was followed by a kick to my helmet that shook the whole suit, I looked.

It was the man who attacked the Scorpitron. I could see him just barely in the low light. I hadn't recognized the hair before, because it was long, curly, and brown. Like mine. Not white. The man was tall and strong, vital and full of energy. Not old and bent. But it was my grandfather all right. The eyes were the same, and the voice.

"Let me out, granpa. I'm trapped." I didn't care if my granpa was a ghost. I wanted out.

"Hell no, Sonny. I didn't raise no weak sons, and neither did my sons. You gotta do it yourself."

"What's going on, granpa?"

"Well, Sonny." He knelt in front of my helmet so I could hear better. "I hope you didn't think that your little sourcegroup was the last word on things. There are some agendas that are hidden but still being carried out. And I'm keeping track of them. Why just last year your dad got out of hand, and I had to snuff him and destroy his clone program."

"Bastard." It was all I had strength to say.

"Heh. Well, I bet you wonder why your old granpa is still around. I betcha thought that all those I stories I told you were make-believe. Well, they were reminiscence, not fairytales!" He laughed and I moaned. "Well, I'm still alive because of beatiful, beautiful clone technology. One body wears out, make a new one. And so on. So I can just keep going, doing the things I do." He gestured around him. "The Wasteland is a bit of a handicap, mind you, but I always loved a challenge."

"Why..."

"Don't be melodramatic, Sonny. You're pinned under several tons of rubble. It doesn't work. Tell you what. I'll give you a chance at the family business if you meet me somewhere. How about... the West Coast. The southern tip of Highway 101, right before it drops off to where northern California was. I'll meet you there in a week." He pondered a moment. "No, make that two days. Latimer Johnson never raised no weak grandsons."

"Latimer?" I croaked.

He rose- I could see the name embroidered in gold thread on the front of his, yes, Johnson Servotech coverall- and nudged the Proton Axe closer to my arm with his foot. Then he was gone.

"Two days, Sonny. And don't even think about snuffing me the way I did your dad.

"You may be Photon Stud, but you're no Supreme Jerk."


	2. Cadaver Chase

**These Wasteland stories were written back when I was just a young man, back in- well, let's just say it was in another millennium! Obviously they're rough, and not the best writing, but now, looking back as a published novelist, they ain't half bad! I've tried to reconcile some of the references to fit with the Fallout universe, but you may have to just grin and bear it if anything doesn't ring true. I'll be moving on to some fresh New Vegas fiction once I'm done uploading these chapters, and who knows, maybe the story will continue...**

CADAVER CHASE

I carved my way through the stand of trees with the Proton Axe. It hummed on the strokes, with a weird buzzing in your ear like ground hornets. It made me glad of my strong will. I think lesser men would break under the strain of wielding the proton axe in a noncombat setting. It's one thing to whip out a strange humming weapon to cleave someone's head open in a life or death battle; it's another thing entirely to use it like your trusty machete.

This was a place that had been known as Smith River, California. It had originally been a small stop right near the northern border to Oregon. Just a place where truckers would take a load off after being hassled by customs agents. It had been located smack dab in the middle of the land. Now it was a coastal town, or rather, the coastal ruins of a town. I had made it here in the two days my granpa had specified, even without the hovertank.

When I managed, with a burst of amazing adrenaline, to grab the proton axe, I was able to cut my way free of the rubble, and out of the power armor, which was frakked, from some electrical short. I cut my way to the surface in the rubber undersuit, and once there had taken it off.

My mind at that point had become so addled that I didn't even care I was naked, running through Las Vegas with a Proton Axe. Any challengers were either put off by my nudity or my fist through their skull. You just can't be bothered at times like that.

When I returned to the desert where I had placed my hovertank, I discovered that someone had removed all the circuit boards and actuation devices. I don't know many people in the greater Las Vegas area with that kind of expertise, so I figured my granpa was just being difficult. I took my canteen, miscellaneous survival gear, and what little clothing and armor I had. Out into the desert I went, and some hunch made me take a detour towards a place called the Guardian Citadel. It was the stronghold of a bunch of religious nuts. They had a lot of prewar technology that was for the taking if you could take a few of them down. I discovered that someone had already done that. At first I suspected granpa, but then I noticed that there were blast craters and demolished walls everywhere, and the ground was littered with shell casings and discarded LAW rockets, along with hundreds of cigarette butts. Desert Rangers. And when I discovered that there was nothing left of worth in the building but a single power pack, I got the idea that maybe I would pay the Rangers a visit at their 'Ranger Center,' which was just an old jail down south.

Granpa's voice came back to me then, and I had to check my vengefulness for later. I was on a tight time schedule. But that's how it goes. I left the Guardian Citadel without any real satisfaction. It took me almost exactly two days to reach the appointed spot, and I arrived with not a small amount of trepidation. I wondered what the family business was, exactly. SourceGroup had been the only life I knew, which was a fair sight better than most lives people lived nowadays. What could he have to offer me?

I had cleared the stand of trees when the answer came to me. The only true commodity he had to offer someone in this world was immortality... a constant string of cloning and memory transfers. But was it worth it?

The town had almost been reclaimed by the wilderness. That was why I had to cut through just to get in. I figured that if there was any place near the coast that my granpa wanted to meet, it would be this poetically desolate hellhole. Seeing the ruins of the town, I crossed a wide drywash, which had been the river the town was named after. I started exploring.

It looked like it had once been thriving, but it was completely dead now, apart from some radioactive vermin that had grown to huge size and made a rat warren out of the town. A few buildings still stood, though. I headed towards the nearest large one that was in good condition.

The building yawned empty and deserted, and the smaller variety of irradiated gopher scattered in all directions. This building must have been a store or something similar. It was like a warehouse, but it was decorated in a customer-friendly manner. All manner of miscellaneous garbage lay everywhere, and I skirted it as I made a quick exam of the inside. There was nothing that was in any shape to be used, and all the food that had been there was long gone. I was coming back to the entrance when I heard it. Humming.

I dropped to a crouching stance, leaving the proton axe off for the moment. I didn't want the noise to give me away. From my perch underneath a large stack of pallets, I saw faint movement coming from a far corner of the warehouse. It solidified to a short man in some sort of bulky clothing or armor. In the gloom of the store I noticed he was bald, with a bulldog face. As he came closer I could see that he wore a large pack over what looked like an armored coverall. Something about his head looked funny, and then I saw his ugly crumpled face was twisted in a smile.

In a lightning flash of movement I had rolled over to him, and when I sprang up in front of him I had my now-humming proton axe a mere centimeter from his neck. I was stunned shortly by his truly rough face and bald head. His scalp was covered in scars and knots, like he used it as a weapon against a tank. But it was his smiling brown eyes and enormous rugged grin that bothered me; he looked entirely unsurprised.

I felt a warm gun barrel against my neck. He must have drawn it and put it there while I was doing the same thing with the proton axe. The bastard was fast.

"Hey there, Paul Bunyan. No need for hostilities." His voice was gravelly, like he had lung cancer.

"I suppose not. Just being cautious." He shrugged, still smiling.

"You got the right idea, chum." He grinned even harder, and stuck his free hand out. "My handle's The Kaiser. You must be Sonny."

"Frak. Latimer sent you to meet me?"

"Nope, I saw your picture on the cover of the Rollin' Stone." He laughed, and it sounded like sheet metal tearing.

"Well, Kaiser, how about we drop the weapons. Nice and slow."

"Sure enough, boy-o. Nice and slow." He pronounced it nice and slow.

We pulled our weapons down simultaneously, nice and slow. The Kaiser was patting his belly over the armored coverall. "Now where'd you get that museum piece, buddy? Looks like somebody kept it oiled!"

"I found it."

"Ha! Frak, that's a good one. I suppose you're wondering why I'm here instead of Latimer. Well..." He made an expansive gesture. "He's a little busy. We'll be meeting him somewhere, but we've got a little bit of an errand to run. If you're not doing anything for a while."

I found myself liking The Kaiser. He had a crusty manner about him that was endearing to me. I suspected he'd be a good man to work with, and a good man to have at your back. He reminded me of a kindly uncle. Hell, with my bizarre family he just might be my uncle.

"C'mon, boy-o. This place is too stale for me. Just had to come in here to find you."

"How would you even know I'd come in here?" Something was funnier than a desert dweller's grin.

"Just a hunch, kid. Don't sweat it." He reached down into some rubble where he had dropped a backpack when we had our standoff and slung it up over his shoulder. "Are you comin'?"

"Yeah."

I followed him back out into the Smith River sunlight. It was always a brighter, more washed-out sun along the coast, for whatever reason. The sunlight in Vegas and the Midwest is thicker somehow, the sky a deep indigo with tinges of aquamarine.

The Kaiser stretched, his bulldog frame popping and snapping.

"Good grief, boy-o, when you're as old as I am, you'll sound like that too. We got a train to catch. Come on."

"Whoa there, Kaiser. Train?"

"Figure of speech, Sonny." He started walking and I followed for lack of better action. "Just a little errand up north. We're gonna be pallbearers."

We had filled our canteens at an old artesian well that still had water, and started trekking north into the desert. Smith Village was behind us about 6 miles, and I couldn't stand being quiet anymore.

The Kaiser had been humming his weird tune the whole time. He'd hum the introduction part, hit a wrong note, then start to kick into the chorus. He never seemed to make it, though, instead repeating the intro. I was very close to sticking the proton axe in one of our skulls at that point, but instead I marshaled all of the discipline I had gained from a lifetime of strife in the Wasteland. Words forced themselves out of my lips.

"What song is that anyway?"

The Kaiser looked surprised at the question, and faltered in mid-hum. "Whazzat, boy-o?" He shook his lumpy head and grinned. "Of course you wouldn't have heard that song ever. It's the best song ever written in the history of mankind. It's called "War Pigs" by a group called Black Sabbath."

"Sorry, doesn't ring a bell."

"Well, I got that part stuck in my head when the song came out, and I've had it in there ever since. Keeps my mind off my troubles." He let loose his painful laugh and resumed humming "War Pig" or whatever. I wondered what it must have sounded like originally.

We had another punishing hour in the desert with the humming. The Kaiser's hum was almost as maddening as the Proton Ax's weird noise. Finally I couldn't stand it.

Quicker than wind I jumped onto the Kaiser's back and began pummeling him on his neck- it wasn't much of a target, but it was softer than his impenetrable skull.

"YOU FRAKKING LUNATIC, QUIT WITH THE HUMMING!"

Not missing a beat, the Kaiser snapped his head back and slammed it into the bridge of my nose. Pain exploded and my vision went for a split second. In that split second I ended up on my ass a few feet away from the angry Kaiser, who had drawn his gun backwards. He was holding like he was prepared to pistol whip someone, and scowled.

I had the axe out, and it was the only one humming now. I had recovered from the head butt and advanced in a low leaning stance that was perfect for axe combat. The Kaiser lashed out with his gun in an attempt to subdue me, and I barely dodged. The quick move left me on the defensive again, and then things got heavy.

There's no way I can describe a fight like that to someone who hasn't seen it. A Source Group operative at his fighting peak and a pre-nuke veteran with a lifetime of training can make combat into a full-fledged military engagement. Suffice it to say that the melee was blindingly quick and deadly. We fought for a long time, saying nothing, when finally the Kaiser put an end to it. He had been fighting with the butt of his gun, and attempting to grapple with me. Impatience won out, however, and he did something totally unexpected. He kicked me.

I don't think there was ever a kick like that in the history of mankind. His foot launched straight out and connected with my chest, sending me flying backwards into a tall scrub tree. The tree exploded into flinders without checking my flight at all, and skidding across the ground I somehow managed to roll. That roll saved my life, keeping my head from slamming into a large boulder in the way. The rest of my body was not so lucky.

The Kaiser was at my side, and yanked me up. "Jeezum crow, Sonny... you coulda killed somebody with that thing," he said, pointing to the proton axe which lay a few yards away. He laughed louder than ever, and patted my back vigorously, sending up a great puff of dust. I coughed.

"No more humming, Kaiser. I mean it. You have to sleep sometime."

"True enough. Well boy-o, guess we won't have a soundtrack for this trip. Your loss, I think."

"Fewmets!" Cursing seemed to help. "You have to level with me now. I'm not going to tramp off into the desert on some godforsaken wild rad-rat chase, not for you or my Granpa or Ace Maloney or anyone."

For an amazing moment the Kaiser's eyes widened, and he looked surprised. His mien quickly returned to its normal surly cheer.

"Funny you should say that. That's the man we have to get a hold of."

"What? Ace Maloney?"

"That's him."

"Ace Maloney is dead, Kaiser! SourceGroup sent me to kill him, but he was already dead, in a shootout at Spade's Casino!"

"Hmm. Well, we have to get a hold of his body, then. He had something with him that we need."

"Frak. I never hear the end of this bastard. To tell you the truth, I was looking forward to killing him."

"Too bad. We're just pickin' up the body."

And that was that. We kept traveling, this time with no humming and no violence. The trip was over soon enough; we stood beneath a stand of trees where the Kaiser had stopped me all of a sudden. In the clearing before us was a simple log cabin. The door was closed and guarded by a man in jeans and a leather jacket. Both items had been painted a grayish-green camouflage pattern, as had his lank hair. He held an Uzi and was not particularly concealed in front of the peeling red door.

"That's it right there. That's where Maloney is."

"What the hell is he doing in some hick gang's hideout? Why would they bring a corpse all the way from Vegas to wherever we are?"

"Hmm. I told you, there's something Maloney had with him that we need to get back."

"Well, you're the boss. I suppose you want me to bust in there and flush people out?"

He nodded. "You got it. If you don't mind."

"Don't worry about it."

I stepped out of the trees and sprinted along the treeline. I came up behind the cabin diagonally to avoid anyone looking out of a window. Stepping as quietly as I could, I rounded the corner. The camo guy hadn't noticed me yet. Now.

It seemed like the proton axe wanted to launch out to strike. I used a two-handed grip and aimed it at his right arm, hoping for a quick disarm. I was unpleasantly surprised.

The axe hummed and met flesh, causing the man to become a fine red mist. Sparks flew as it bisected the Uzi. The gore was indescribable, splashing the ground, the cabin, and my entire front. The cabin's window was a dripping sheet of red, and I dimly saw a face peer through it.

A quick jump brought me to the far side of the cabin's front door, just as another camouflaged goon stepped out. The axe connected with his gun, which exploded and sent shrapnel everywhere. I had struck again on the backsweep of the axe before he had time to bleed from the metal shards. A similar explosion of blood and innards inundated everything. The still-humming axe, which had been covered with red, was now sparkling clean.

It was no time to ponder the wonders of technology. I burst in through the door, the axe leading to fight further people, but there was no one there. The cabin was empty.

Empty, that is, except for the coffin.

It was a normal coffin, though far finer than any I'd seen in the Wasteland. It was shiny and smooth, well-ornamented. Laying my hand on it to feel the wood, I discovered it wasn't wood at all, but some kind of plastic, and it was freezing cold.

"A refrigerated coffin." The Kaiser spoke from behind me. "Need to keep him fresh."

"Please explain this to me. Or better yet, just get what he had and we can take off."

"It's not so easy as all that. What he had with him, well, it's inside him. And hidden so you can't just cut him open and get it."

"In his body? How were these jerks going to get it out?"

"Well, they weren't. You'd need a doctor to get it out, really. And they were waiting for the Doctor."

I sat down on the only piece of furniture in the cabin, a plastic picnic table.

"So do we have to wait for a doctor, too?"

"Of course not. We're just going to take the whole thing. We can build ourselves a little carrier out of logs, and take it with us and meet Latimer." He had an amazing expression on his face, like he was a Boy Scout of the olden days who's getting his merit badge in Cadaver Chase.

"You are insane, Kaiser! You know that?" I got up and headed for the door. I had put my hand on the doorknob when something caught my attention from through the red-tinted window. About sixty feet away was someone with the unmistakable silhouette of a man firing an RPG-7.

"GO!" I yelled as I slashed at the side wall of the cabin with the proton axe. I burst through the ragged hole, the Kaiser close behind. We had just thrown ourselves into the trees when the cabin erupted in flame. The concussion wave snapped branches and flattened us to the ground.

But the problem with RPGs is that you can reload. I got up, ignoring my newly formed bruises, and ran full speed towards the shooter, who was busily trying to screw on another grenade. Ten feet away I stopped cold. It was Ace.

Surprise doesn't keep you alive in the Wasteland. Anger does. A well-placed crescent kick knocked the launcher and grenade from his hands, and my following axe blow smashed Maloney into ground round. He didn't have time to do anything.

The Kaiser was suddenly at my side, and I turned the axe off. I didn't want the humming to interfere with my train of thought.

I pointed at the corpse.

"It's not very recognizable, but I know what I saw. Who was that?"

"Ace Maloney."

"Then who the hell was in the coffin?"

"Maloney as well."

The axe was humming again and this time I was faster on the draw. Even the Kaiser was nervous now that he had a proton axe in his face.

"Will you please tell me what's going on?"

"Okay, boy-o. I suppose it's time. You know about cloning, right?"

"Somewhat."

"Well, both Maloneys were clones. We had a genetic sample and memory program from the real Ace Maloney, and we were using the clones to perform errands. Problem is, these clones keep going nuts and thinking they are the real Maloney. We don't know why. This last one even stole the clone program and gene material from the Sleeper Base. Hid it in some sort of internal pouch, and then got killed. The Maloney clones can be real dumb sometimes. Latimer wanted the clone program to figure out what went wrong, so we can get some use out of ol' Ace."

"So the Ace clone with the RPG destroyed the body of the other Ace clone, and in the process destroyed the original genetic sample?"

"You got it. Not that big of a deal, we just have to get some samples from the real Maloney. I don't suppose you..."

"Oh no. This is just plain foolish. I realize you geezers have been around since forever and know more than I ever will, but I just don't think you get it." I pulled the axe back, ready to strike.

"Sonny! Don't! You wouldn't!"

"Say hello to Latimer when you finally see him."

I struck, turning off the axe as I did so. A proton axe is pretty dull without its energized component, and the blunt tip slammed into the Kaiser's knotty forehead with great force He still bore his rare, frightened expression as he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

I found a suitable place to get rid of the sleeping Kaiser. A deep ravine in the woods. Once awake, it would take him hours to climb out of, but not forever, so I slid him down the slope. He came to rest at the bottom, still out like a light. I retreated to the edge of the woods, and waited.

It wasn't very long before I spotted someone coming through the same break in the trees the Kaiser and I had used. Several someones.

The first four were in uniform khaki outfits, and were heavily armed. Desert Rangers. The last was clad in a red robe trimmed in blue. His face was half obscured beneath the cowl, but I think I recognized him nonetheless. It was Dr. Mike Scott, a Servant of the Mushroom Cloud. He was a wacky cultist from east Vegas, but also probably the best doctor in the Wasteland. I knew him from a long time ago, and he was just the sort of guy to wander off with Desert Rangers in search of adventure. I don't know what connected him with the dead goons and Maloney and Granpa, but I figured I'd find out soon enough.

They spotted the carnage where the cabin had once been, and looked puzzled. Stepping out of the trees, I decided to help them figure it out. Sure the Rangers were bastards, but aren't we all? I raised my hands wide, to show they were empty, and called out.

"Hey, Scott! Room for one more?"


	3. Covenant With Death

COVENANT WITH DEATH

Danger in the desert. It seemed to seep up from the ground like vermin, and sometimes the vermin was the danger. Scorpions and lizards, ants and snakes and enormous gophers that glided on hot air currents, leaping from the tops of tall dead trees. A man might walk the length of the Wasteland and never see another soul unless he bent to drink from a pool of water and saw his own reflection in the probably poisonous water. Other times wanderers might not be able to travel the length of an old city block without being interrupted by scavenging bandits, deranged cultists, or mutated wretches. This was the way things were, unlikely to change.

A lone man was braving the peril of the Wasteland, a single soldier whose army was for all practical purposes dead. The soldier, the leader of men, John Covenant, had begun his journey.

He had started in his home state of Minnesota, where he had returned after being a little too personally involved in the end of the world. He had come to find his older brother David, and they had fought. That was all it reduced to, the lowest common denominator. David had fled from his own home to a nearby abandoned survivalist camp, and Covenant had taken up residence in his brother's home. The elder Covenant was an egghead, no soldier, and John had decided to look out for him, estranged though they might be. Time wore by, and the man who had been Lieutenant Colonel John Covenant slowly shed what remained of his history. Fruitless shortwave radio scanning had occupied some of his time at the cabin, and at last eight months after the accident, he picked up a transmission. The high quantity of radiation interfered with signals, but this one came through loud and clear.

"—Ranger Center, calling all inhabitants of New Nevada and outlying areas. If you are survivors who wish to assist in the rebuilding, please wait until the end of the message for directions to Ranger Center." The message continued, and Covenant began the process of activating his ham radio.

A week later he had packed and was on his way to join the Desert Rangers.

Meanwhile in the desert.

There is a man lurking in the cool shadows of strange rock. A broad based piece of limestone narrowed upwards into a thin needle, upon which was perched an enormous boulder of basalt. It was just too weird to be naturally occurring, but that was how the desert was.

The man was old, quite ancient in fact. He bore traces of malnutrition in the harsh lines of his body, which poked through his clothing here and there. Though exhausted, starved, and baking slowly in the desert heat, he was strangely euphoric. Times had been hard, but they were nearing their close. The old man, who had been famous and loved before the war, was now a philosophical hermit, wandering for days from period of dehydration to period of dehydration. He hallucinated aplenty, and had more than his share of run-ins with deadly animals and wild humans. His time in the desert had given him a holy purpose, and it seemed the beasts of the earth and the children of God could sense that. He was largely unmolested in his periods of greater insanity.

Resting in the shade, he seemed nothing more than a skeleton. A beatific smile perched on his lips, and he scanned the area around him as it shimmered hotly in his vision.

A vulture squawked from somewhere nearby. The ugly birds had been following the old man around all day. It was just one more confirmation of what he already knew.

The old man spent the better part of six hours dying beneath the improbable rock, and had almost finished when he had a visitor. A man stepped around the rock and faced the hermit.

"Greetings, Mr. Heston." The old man snapped his leonine head up in a flash. The man who had addressed him was clad in an impractical suit of black leather, and trailed a long cape of dark maroon. A number of sacks were tucked into it. His face was pale, far too pale, with drawn lips and deep-sunken eyes. His hair was a light blonde, shaven almost down to the skull. He held a rifle resting against his shoulder.

The hermit, who felt far too holy (and weak) to reply, merely fixed a piercing blue eye on the newcomer. "It's hot, wouldn't you say?" The man in black was not angered by lack of response and simply crouched on the ground and began to expertly fieldstrip the rifle. The old man watched him intently, and at last opened his dry mouth.

"You should oil it."

"Ahh, you can speak. Would you care to oil it yourself?" He proffered the halfway-disassembled rifle and a small can of oil.

"Go away. I'm dying."

"Come now, Mr. Heston. I'm sure you'd like to help me out."

"How do you know my name, anyway?" His voice was hardly more than a croak. Suddenly something registered, and his face lit up, the craggy lines behind the white beard accentuating his age. "You're him! Finally."

The man in black smiled, and pressed the rifle and oil into the old man's hands. With amazing slowness, the hermit descended to his knees and began oiling the rifle. After a few moments, he had reassembled it, and then slumped to the ground with the rifle on his chest.

"Mr. Heston, I know you are resigned to the end, and you wish me to take you now. Unfortunately…"

"My god, man!" The old man shouted with surprising ferocity, though he moved nothing beneath his chin. "You're the angel of death and you can't get the job done? If I were younger, I…"

"I know, sir. I wish to tell you a little something of the future. Though your body is ready, it will not die for another day. The vultures will begin picking at you within minutes, until they are scared away by some… creatures from those hills you passed yesterday. They have disgusting tastes, and a nature of cruelty, so the end will be long and terrible…"

The old man exhaled loudly through his nostrils. "I'm not afraid."

"It's not a matter of fear or weakness. I will tell you now," the man in black said, taking off his cape and sacks, laying them on the ground, "that I will take your place if you will take mine. I will take your death if you will take my responsibility. Would you do that? Do you want the chance to live again?"

"I'm not afraid. It would be a favor to you?"

The man in black smiled as if humoring a child. "I would be very indebted. Eternally indebted."

"Throw in the rifle and it's a deal."

The man in black grinned, now removing his clothing. He lay down on the ground next to the old man, who felt a wave of disorientation rise over him. After a moment the old man rose. He felt strange, tingly. He looked down onto the ground, where the pale man, no longer dressed in black, lay breathing shallowly. He seemed near to dying, and the old man felt much better. He hefted the rifle, and it seemed to weigh almost nothing. He checked and found that it held cartridges.

"There you go, sir. Take my clothes as well. There are all the provisions you might need in the sacks. You'll just know where and when to carry on the work." The old man, who had a sneaking suspicion he was no longer old, looked perplexed.

"Does this mean that…"

"Yes. You're the angel of death now, in my place." He sighed, a long wheezing sigh that terminated in a visible state of aging. The former angel of death was now as old and decrepit as the new had been before. "You'll find out how it is soon how enough."

"I'm not afraid. I told you that already. It'll be good to get these old bones out on the town again." He had been old, and now was tall and strong. His long white hair had disappeared, leaving a clean-shaven man with rugged good looks, holding a rifle in strong fingers. He was tan, and a slight sheen of sweat had appeared on him, giving the image of long-lost health found again.

"Thank you, Mr. Heston."

"Call me… Chuck."

"Now I can die, since you've given me your death."

"My death, eh? Don't thank me yet," he muttered, and looked into the distance. "Vultures and mutants, you say? I'll at least do what you should have done for me." He shouldered the rifle, aimed it down at the figure on the ground, and fired three times into the heart.

Putting on the clothes and taking up the sacks, Death walked on through the desert with a light tread.

Covenant drove through the desert. He was escaping his past, running headlong into the future. There was plenty for him in New Nevada, he felt: chances to right some wrongs and settle things within himself. This was reason enough to hurry. He had packed everything possible into his truck and its trailer, all the necessities of travel and survival, as well as the valuable items he thought would be useful to a rising government, such as instrumentation, a series of technical how-to manuals, and many many tools for the making of weapons. It was optimistic, true, that he could help save the world in this way, but he was a man of honor and determined to make up for the grave errors of his past.

The truck sped on through the desert.

There had been very little of interest as he drove southwest from Billings into Wyoming. He had stopped at Yellowstone, thinking to replenish his supplies from the Ranger stations there, but in the brief span of time since the war, the wilderness had almost completely reclaimed the manmade spaces. The new man that Covenant had become appreciated such happenings. There was a sort of rough justice in Yellowstone becoming frontier again, as many parts of the country were already. The sad thing was that some never would heal, and would forever be a Wasteland.

He continued through the mountains, and passed into Utah, widely skirting SLC and the Salt Lake itself, as he knew from a horrifying few moments during the end of the world that it was, for some reason, a major missile target. He continued from there in an almost straight line south until he hit Price, Utah. It had been a large city before the war, but for some reason was now uninhabited. Likely rioting, disease, famine, and fallout had contributed to its emptiness. There were probably a few remaining souls, but they were certain to be destitute and dying of radiation related cancer and leukemia. Covenant's experience with medicine was of the fast field variety: triage and toetags rather than clinics and chemo, but he was sure of the effects of nuclear war.

His truck was installed with an excellent array of sensors that monitored nearby radiation and other hazards. He was able to avoid irradiated zones and was very conscientious about staying safe. He used an air compressor and spray nozzle to keep dust particles off himself and his equipment. He also used water purifiers and a respirator. It was just common sense.

It was with that common sense and a relatively clean reading on the sensors that Covenant explored Price. As Covenant made his way through the nondescript city, he left his common sense behind and picked up a hitchhiker.

She was beautiful, a dark-skinned girl, extremely short. She had long black hair that was straight and thick and everything about her seemed precious and healthy, except the look of despair on her face.

Covenant had no idea of how she could have survived, barring simple luck and hardiness. She almost seemed some swart angel that had just now flitted into existence to please his eye and (perhaps, dear God!) warm his bed. He found that he was already smiling at the sheer joy of her presence, and his mind had raced already to thoughts of what she meant that it ignored all the little details about her that might sometime be important.

He slowed the truck and pulled up towards her; she was already running towards him, her hair bobbing against her small shoulders, which were covered with a faded green tunic-type dress. His eyes were drawn downward to her slender legs covered in thick tan stockings, and terminated in a masculine pair of well-worn combat boots whose incongruity only helped to heighten her sex appeal.

Yowza, he thought with uncharacteristic gusto. Then she opened the door.

"Oh, help me please… tell me you can take me away."

"Take you away… oh miss, please don't get in just yet!" He intercepted her motion to jump in the cab, turning off the engine as he did so. He jumped out and rounded the truck to where she stood.

She looked up at him, far up, since he was taller than she was by a foot and change. Her eyes were so dark as to be almost black, set like onyx in her beautiful face. Covenant felt himself wanting her to jump right in already. But precautions had to be followed. He pulled on his respirator and dialed in a feed of air, then yanked the Geiger counter from the pocket of his cargo pants.

Her dark eyes widened at the device, but she said nothing, though Covenant seemed to sense urgency in the set of her full mouth. A flick of a toggle caused the device to click and crackle, a small LCD screen displaying the level of radiation, which was high for normal life, but relatively low in this case. He swept the chrome wand of it towards the girl, and was rewarded with a level of radiation no higher than the surrounding area. He grinned, though he was sure she couldn't see anything but his eyes through the full facemask.

He raised one finger to tell her to wait, then pulled the nozzle of the air compressor hose from its reel. Covenant then proceeded to blast her with the air. A cloud of dust blew itself from her hair and clothing, blowing back behind her towards the city. She was leaving it behind, it seemed.

Minutes later they were driving out of the city and into the Wasteland, and had it not been for circumstances, they might have been young lovers out for a drive in the country. The truck sped over dusty flatlands and barren defiles, with nary a word passing between the two. The girl remained strangely silent, and Covenant, though he was desperately wanting to ask her something, anything, did not for about ten miles, when at last they reached a strange sign that had burned beyond recognition, save the very top portion which read NOW LEAVING…

"Miss, I… can't help but be curious, that is, about how you have survived all this time. I'm sure it's been traumatic, but how?"

"Do you know anything about luck?"

Covenant swallowed hard. Something in her tone indicated the mystical, the oracular. He had never been a man to put much stock in those things, and the sparkle in her dark eyes promised more. He listened.

"No, miss, I've never believed in it. Or fate," he added hastily. "Either one."

"There are some who would say that luck is everything now. That we are lucky to have survived, that we have what we need to continue in some places. There are some that would say that luck is drawing us together, as well. Where are you headed?" She snapped her full gaze at him, and held him at the eyes. John Covenant, accounted a hard, tough man by most, was enthralled.

"South, so far. I've heard from someplace called Ranger Center, in Nevada. I'm hoping to find some people who can help me rebuild." He took a chance. "What are you hoping to find?"

She held him, eyes dark and unblinking. A moment passed before she responded. "I need to go to Las Vegas." The words came slowly, as if each one had to be formed perfectly. "I'm looking for the luckiest man alive."

And then she was silent again.

The town was tiny, had been since before the war. It had been barren and dusty then, and was just shy of oblivion now. As the Angel of Death entered, it became plain to him that there were twenty men living there. He could feel them like indistinct pinpoints behind the desiccated walls of nearby buildings, and… there was something else. It was like a hint of scent, but it was deeper in the chest than it was in the nose. His mind kept chasing it, and it was only when he relaxed and stopped thinking did he realize what it was.

Someone had poisoned the waterhole.

He ambled down the only street that remained, and eventually came to a well. It looked like new construction from various recycled parts. Here was the stink, so bad it made his chest ache. The Angel of Death leaned over the well, and inhaled. He inhaled again, and then a shock went through him. There was no odor at all.

Still, the stench was stronger here than anywhere, and as he stood in the full power of it, things became clear. Someone had yet to poison the waterhole, but it held the potential for death and displayed its stench like a preview of coming attractions. Every man jack in the town would be dead within twenty-four hours. A vision came to him of wracking stomach cramps, bleeding from every orifice, and screaming that would never be answered by any human succor.

His reverie was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. He spun, not even thinking, and delivered a powerful two-fisted punch downward onto his enemy's neck. Bones snapped loudly and the man dropped without a sound, instantly dead.

"He didn't suffer," the Angel of Death muttered to himself. The man's face, now peaceful, still bore the fateful marks that meant he would be poisoned, invisible marks only Death could read. Yet, he had ended it now.

Something tugged at him, a feeling that was he was doing was not his purpose, that it was wrong. Nature was screaming that he was not helping the process. The universe continued to reject his actions even as he banged with his rifle butt on the tin lean-to over the well.

"HELLO!" he bellowed. "Everyone please come outside!"

They began pouring out of the buildings, armed, dangerous men accustomed to a life of banditry, who would die like dogs after drinking water from their own well. He wasn't going to let it happen.

"Who the hell are you?" shouted an enormous bearded man with an axe.

"I'm the Angel of Death," he announced to a few snickers, "but you can call me Chuck."

The first bullet bounced right off of him, as did a knife that came flying when the gang of men decided to annihilate the lone stranger that had killed their comrade. The Angel of Death would have guided them into the demise that fate had chosen for them, suffering and all, but he was Chuck.

He began to fire.

Eventually they had to make camp. Covenant had never had sisters, or much of a steady girlfriend, but he understood that women had a great need to go to the toilet. When he felt that they had made good time and were comfortably away from any inhabited areas, he stopped. Before the truck had even finished bouncing on its tires, the girl had jumped up and sprinted along the dry gulch and into a treeline.

Covenant suppressed a curse. Not everyone was combat trained, and even then not everyone could keep a cool head. Still, for a girl who had survived as long as she had, she sure didn't have much regard for caution.

Taking advantage of her absence, Covenant shouldered his NATO assault rifle and began to pace the length of the dry gulch, looking for points of defense, points of weakness

For about the hundredth time that day he wondered why he was tooling through the desert with this mystery woman who was jeopardizing everything he had believed to be journeying for. When his brother had said the harsh things he did back in Montana, Covenant decided that his lot was to be cast with those who wanted to help the world, not hide from it. After the radio messages from Nevada, he knew that his journey had begun. Now he was flouting all the ideas he had thought he had…

And all for a dame, as the guy in True Police Stories used to say.

Covenant had made a full perimeter check, and speaking of dames, where was she? It had been far too long just for an empty bladder.

In the Wasteland, anything even something slightly wrong could mean danger, and Covenant knew something was wrong.

Rifle ahead, Covenant made speed towards the treeline with a silence almost supernatural over the gravel and sticks of the gulch. The trees were a specimen of grayish evergreen, almost spruce-like. The gulch took a sharp swing and dipped down into a sharp grade. He noticed a number of broken twigs and fresh scuffs on the earth, so he decided to follow the girl's trail. It led a little further up to the darkness of a thick copse of trees. Covenant peered into the blackness, and was intrigued to see a faint glow from beyond the trunks. He held up the probe of the Geiger counter, and found that there was quite a bit of radiation.

His brow furrowed over this disturbing revelation, when suddenly the rad levels dropped back down to normal. He cursed silently, because it meant his counter might be going, and then he'd only have his spare. The glow was gone, anyway, so maybe he had imagined it. He put away the probe and readied his assault rifle before entering the copse.

Covenant slipped around the last tree to find that he was in a dim clearing. There was the girl. Her stockings were around her ankles, revealing beautifully toned legs, though luckily for his composure they revealed nothing else. She was standing stock still, and looking at him nervously.

"Snake…" she said, barely moving her lips. He looked a branch above her head and saw a snake. Big one, too, and not venomous, so far as he knew. Covenant looked closer, then laughed. She gave him a strange look as he stepped forward grabbed the snake, holding it out to her.

"Dead snake," he said. She put on a brave smile for him.

"Would you turn around, please?"

"Oh, sure. I'm sorry, miss." Covenant turned around and took a few paces forward to give her some privacy. He noticed that the snake felt strange in his hand- it was positively hot. Turning it over, he looked at the head. Its eyes were white with cataracts. Very strange.

He heard the girl clear her throat, and he turned around. She was standing in front of him, stockings pulled up, holding her hand out. He took it, and she smiled. They began to walk out of the clearing like two lovebirds. The sun was shining through the trees, and he could almost hear birds singing… then he snapped out of it. I am just not thinking on this trek, he thought. Embarrassed, he withdrew his hand from the girl's and took hold of his rifle again. "I'm sorry. I need to have my hands free. If there's trouble, you know?" She nodded, though her expression said she was not happy. They walked in silence back to the truck, with Covenant keeping a sharp watch.

Once back to their site, Covenant began setting up camp, and preparing to bivouac for the night. There now seemed to be a chilly silence between himself and the girl, and he struggled to not say things that would no doubt embarrass him. Throughout, the girl didn't help, just sat on a dry stump watching him with a predatory glare, which was starting to annoy him somewhat. Eventually he chuckled to himself. As beautiful as she was, and lonely as he was, he should have been ready to drink her bathwater, not give her a kick in the pants. The war really had screwed things up.

He had the tent set up, and was about to make a fire for what no doubt was to be a doubly cold evening, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The girl had grabbed him, and put her face close to his. The look in her eyes had changed to one of desperation, and her lip was trembling. "Look…" he started, but she shushed him with a kiss.

It was powerful, and Covenant felt everything melting away, all care and worry. She was so hot! Her lips burned his, and her hands did too as she started unbuttoning his shirt. He bent down and began to kiss her smooth neck, and he could taste her sweat, which inflamed him further. She sighed, then put her lips to his ear.

"Please… I don't care if you're cruel. Just promise to protect me, and take me…" he pulled her close. "Take me all the way to Las Vegas." Her tongue flicked out and licked his ear, and he shuddering, mumbling his agreement the whole time. He was lost in her, head swimming, when suddenly she tensed and grabbed him convulsively. He stood straight and looked at her. There was a bullet hole in her head.

Covenant snapped out of it, and heard the echoes of a gunshot. Confused, he could not react as the girl's face turned to a wicked grimace. Blue light streamed from the wound in her forehead, and her eyes glowed with the same radiance. Her skin began to glow a dull red, as if she were molten inside, and with disarming speed she swatted Covenant aside like a minor pest.

The terrific blow slammed him into the truck, and he lay there in what felt like a state of rib breakage. He could hear the Geiger counter in the truck screaming. As he tried to marshal himself he watched as the girl, like some terrible radiation angel, ran towards her attacker.

A man stood at the edge of the trees, dressed in black leather and a dark cape. He was holding an old rifle, which he frowned at and then discarded. He ran forward and met the girl halfway. He leveled a haymaker at her, which knocked her stumbling backwards. The man shuffled forward to close the distance, but as he did the girl reached out with both hands and her glow brightened, surrounding the rifleman. He paused, his hair standing on end and his cape bursting into flame, but soon recovered. Now a number of very straightforward jabs followed his previous blows, and she was reeling. The man grinned, revealing thick, horsey teeth, and hit the girl with a two-fisted punch. Something crunched sickeningly, and the girl dropped.

Covenant watched in awe as, with a final flare of light, the girl crumpled into a pile of clothing filled only with a lightly glowing blue dust

The man had grabbed Covenant's shirt and easily pulled him upright. Up close, he was handsome in an old-fashioned way, despite the teeth and high hairline. He seemed familiar, as well, and when he spoke, Covenant suddenly knew who he was but didn't believe it.

"I don't believe in hitting women. That was no lady, though. It was a monster!" Covenant thought suddenly of the snake. He gulped. "How could a warrior like you," grated the man as he released Covenant, "lose all your senses because of a… a… bosom?" He smiled then. "I'm sorry, son. She was probably a breath of fresh air. Or seemed like it, but believe me, it would have been miserable if I hadn't come for you early."

"What?"

"Never mind. Look, you're absolutely filthy with atoms. Go get cleaned up before your hair falls out."

Covenant did just that, blowing himself off with the air hose, then downing a few doses of Rad-away, which he had hoarded for just this purpose. He took off his clothes, which he left lying on the ground and changed into a clean coverall before getting ready to jump into the truck.

The man rounded the back end of the truck, then stopped short. "I've been a little too close to the remains to get much closer to you, but I'll show you what I found." He held up a thick envelope, well creased, with 'Anitra' written on the cover. He opened it, and removed a paper. "It's some kind of writ of free passage, signed by 'Faran Brygo.' Next item," he said, holding up another paper, "is a handwritten note. It says 'Ace Maloney,' and it's followed by a description." Covenant peered forward as the man held it up, and he memorized Maloney's description. "Signed 'Charmaine.' There's also this." He held up the last item, a hypodermic needle and ampule sealed in plastic.

"Look, I don't know why you're doing this…"

"I can see into your heart, John. I know that you are going to do what needs to be done even if it gets you killed. Or worse, if you have to break the rules. Like I'm doing now. I don't think you'll be able to change all this-" he made a sweeping gesture at the wasteland around them- "but you'll try. When I see you next, I want you to tell me you tried."

With that he turned and wandered off into the wilderness.

Covenant shook his head and whispered at the retreating figure. "Thanks, Mr. Heston."

Time had not treated John Covenant well.

Forty years of fighting with the Desert Rangers, to no appreciable success, had reduced him to a brittle collection of scars, physical and mental. One day he had left his armor, his weapons, and most of his pride, and just walked.

Eventually he came to a place called Canvas Butte, an out-of-the-way village left relatively untouched by the world around it. The people were quiet, friendly, and mostly illiterate, so they welcomed the grizzled stranger who could make medicines and teach their children stories of days past. It was good, but of course it didn't last. Onto all the pain in his joints and muscles, old age added a problem with his heart. Now he moved slow, when at all.

The peace couldn't last either. One day the village graveyard became invaded by mutants, called shambling ghouls by the superstitious villagers who refused to go near the graveyard. Soon the deceased went into the smokehouse, which was simply unacceptable to John Covenant. He summoned what strength remained to him and removed the village's treasured artifact, a .50 Desert Eagle, from its home in his hut. There were four clips, and he took them all.

Once past the graveyard gate, he had no time to worry about what was to come. The ghouls were upon him, slow but steady, and he began to slaughter them. It took a lot of bullets, because his aim was not at all steady and the shots knocked his withered arms back like a cannon. He reloaded when he could, though his hands shook as he did it.

Finally, it was done. He slumped against a gravestone, the pistol limp in his fingers. A fire leaped in his chest, stealing his breath. Then a shadow loomed over him, and he looked up. Death was there in his leather suit, looking exactly the same as forty years ago. Covenant tried to speak, but could not.

"Those things aren't all gone you know." As he said this a ghoul appeared and grabbed a leather-clad arm. "Get your hands off me, you damn dirty mutant!" He gave the ghoul a punch that tore its head off. "There are more coming, and they'd eat you alive if you could. It's a terrible way to go."

"I tried…" It was all he could say, as the pain in his chest burned him to ashes.

"I know, John." Death leaned forward and felt Covenant's chest. "Don't worry. I'll finish the ghouls for you. Just a few moments of heartburn, then peace. You've earned it." When the frantic heart stopped beating, Death closed the staring eyes and removed the pistol from the still hand. He slapped a fresh clip in and turned towards the last of the ghouls. "You've earned it."


	4. Family

FAMILY

John has seen me through these years safely, though I thought he had slighted me and insulted me all along. This once I have the chance to make amends, for I have killed us both and I am sorry.

The desert opened before the caravan like a parting sea. Ten pack mules in various stages of radiation poisoning trailed behind the six figures walking at a rapid pace. They were in a loose formation as they walked the desert ground, and something about them spoke of soldiery. Four of them wore uniforms of a dark khaki, and were carrying rifles. One spit on the ground and kicked dirt over it. The other two figures were more motley: a tall, robed figure and a weathered-looking man in an orange vest.

The dust of the road covered them all in a fine tan smudge, making them look hazy and washed-out. I could clearly see their postures from atop the rise I had climbed the night before. They were tired, had walked a long way, and probably fought some hard battles. That much was plain.

How to ambush an alert party of soldiers? I cannot say exactly how. I am not a man of fighting, not a man of action except vicariously. John was a soldier, but I am a scholar. The ways of books and thought and speech have gotten me as far as I am today, but by their prominence in my experience, other things have been forced out. My foot slipped as I stretched to see their progress along the drywash that served as a path. A cascade of rocks and powdery dirt fell down the slope, and I fell.

An enormous yucca dolorosa was all that saved me from death by descent. My body went sliding down the rocky slope, and by some fortune I grasped at the sole patch of green that I passed in my plummet. My hand grasped one of the thick stalks, above its cluster of white petals that shined wax-like in the morning sun. I could see in them the bodies of many small moths, dead and dry. _Tegeticula_, once a pollinator of the yucca before the war, when the plant's milky sap had been only mildly poisonous. The mutation of the yucca was my savior and my doom at the same time; it made for an enormous bush, five or six times larger than any yucca had been even thirty years ago. The stalk held my weight easily. Unfortunately, the plant was now almost carnivorous. Its juices were narcotic and acidic now, and volatile. The pressure of my hand was releasing it; my eyes stung, and I felt a deadly numbness in my fingers and arm. Still I held on with all my might.

It was not enough. Although the stalk held, the dissolving skin on my hand made it slippery, and I began to slide down the stalk. The waxy flowers popped off, sprinkling my face and falling to the ground below. The farther down the stalk I slid, the fewer the flowers between me and oblivion. The fumes were making my mind swim, and it seemed that the smoke rising from my hand swirled into familiar shapes. I fell.

It was so quick, and instead of splattering on the ground, as I had feared, I landed with a thump in the arms of the man in the orange vest. He had caught me without difficulty from a height of perhaps thirty or forty feet. He must have had prodigious strength.

"You ought to be careful, old timer. A fall like that could put you in a walker." He smiled, but without humor. I was gibbering, my hand smoking and my mind fading into gray. I at last managed to stammer the word my life depended on.

"Atropine…"

The man put me down, and turned his head to bellow. "DR. SCOTT, GET OVER HERE!"

I lay on my back, seeming to sink into the ground. The man who had caught me was bent over. Another face appeared next to his, but it was halfway concealed by the deep shadows on the inside. I could glimpse only a pale, gaunt face with thin lips pulled tight over a protrusive mouth. The hooded man spoke.

"What did he say?"

"He said atropine. I don't suppose you have any?"

The hood and its half face disappeared for a moment, and returned bearing a syringe, which promptly descended in a swift arc to pierce the center of my chest. It did not hurt very much owing to the narcotic effects of the yucca, but when the man calmly depressed the plunger, I was flooded with intense fire, sending me retreating into the darkness of my mind, where pain is only a remote echo and the light of day never shines.

I woke with the most terrible taste in my mouth. It was night. There was a dull ache throughout my body. I could tell somehow that I was on the ground, without anything beneath me but dirt and rocks. It was cold, even with what felt to be a horse blanket covering me.

"I see you're awake." The voice was dry, and hollow, in a higher register than seemed right. It belonged to the robed man, still wearing the hood that obscured his face. The shadow within was impenetrable, even with the flickering firelight that I now noticed. It was very eerie, even to me, who had always loved the shifting shadows of a darkened cemetery or an empty library. I shivered, and the man reached for me, moving very slowly and deliberately. He checked my vital signs with a speed that amazing for how slowly he seemed to move. "You're doing much better, though I would still take it easy for a while. The atropine is hard on your system. Might I ask how you knew to ask for atropine?"

I exhaled slowly. "DFP." He nodded. Slowly. "DFP, an antichlorinesterase nerve agent, like sarin, was found in the juice of the yucca, which also began to develop caustic properties and others too strange to understand with our inferior and declining technology. I think it would have been a goldmine of medicine and science in another age. Too bad. Oh… and of course you know that atropine detoxifies DFP. That's the long and the short of it, I'm afraid."

"What is your name, sir?"

"David. You can call me David."

The hood nodded, revealing no more of the face beneath it. "I am Dr. Mike Scott. We will move on the next night, and rest for today." He turned and disappeared from my field of vision. Something was so somber about Dr. Scott that you almost felt sad for him that he had skipped out on the joy of things.

Dawn came and with it uneasy wakefulness. You soon learn to catch slumber whenever you can, especially during the punishing heat of the day. I found the red light of the dawn comforting in my fatigue and in the wake of the poison injected to cure another poison. Those I was with were bedding down save one soldier who had the first watch. Dr. Scott was seated near me on a rubber mat, and was draped in a number of voluminous cloths. It seemed he was a member of some religious order, and chose prayer over sleep.

Eventually I found the solace of sleep. I had bad dreams to put it simply, nightmares of the long hard life I have led since my brother John returned from the war. The details of that day are forever in my mind, and will be until I no longer inhabit the Wasteland.

The technology boom hit a large peak in the middle of the century, and I was born. New developments were made publicly known as a response to growing tensions in the world, to bolster the confidence of Americans and their allies and make the fragmenting states eastward- with China just beyond- shake in its boots. The technology's specifics were kept secret; most people never saw the power matrices that lit the cities, or the neutrinotrons that eliminated toxic waste, when it wasn't just being dumped out the back of a truck somewhere. Of course, certain applications of the new technology, the dregs as it were, were trickled into the public world under tight supervision. The government told the people that these scientific wonders were products of wartime diligence, when the truth was that the technology was of alien manufacture. To this day, I am still not sure of the exact circumstances, but to the discerning scholar it is plain as to the major events of the day.

The technology, as all precious things, was very rare, and it was theorized by some that its coming advanced our civilization but slightly in the short term, and made a harsh dichotomy for our future. Either we would know such advancement as was undreamed, or be sent spiraling into an eternal dark age of human extinction. This was the speculative time into which I was born.

My parents, disciples of the fine arts, told me in adolescence that I was conceived backstage at a production of "Kiss Me Kate." In contrast, they said that John was conceived during a news program about a certain former baseball player's war against the libertine Batista technocrats of Cuba. Cole Porter had gone on to write and produce many more popular musicals, but the charismatic young revolutionary was killed by a Marine invasion force that seized Havana. The US didn't want the Batista's excellent technology to fall into Communist hands. Perhaps these things set the tone for our lives.

I was a sickly child, prone to fevers and being bedridden for weeks at a time. I turned my attention to my father's extensive library, and exhausted it by the time I was eight. Following this was a dreary period of schooling and teaching, writing, reading, and researching. Indeed, the knowledge that was my bread and butter for most of my life is only an idle pastime now. I'm sure that if I put my mind to it I could have remedied some of mankind's problems that developed in the time after the war. However, I find that I simply do not have the strength to put things right unless it has been forced upon me.

A word about John; he was a golden boy in his youth, tall and strong and gregarious, a joy to my parents and everyone around him. My younger brother was a source of jealousy and embarrassment to me. I came to hate the strong Apollonian mind and figure that dominated our household. He of course heaped nothing but scorn upon me, disguised in false brotherly love and concern. I do not suppose that I will ever escape his damned shadow, perhaps even not in death.

Where I became a professor and scholar, John decided to become a soldier from an early age, and with his background, apt mind, and sheer charisma he was bound to an officer of great attainment. Of course, John craved action, as he always had, and became a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force Special Military Police. He was a great leader of his men and an undercover agent extraordinaire. His work infiltrating Nazi and neo-fascist groups was a source of great pride for him and our parents. It left a foul taste in my mouth, though, to be so closely tied to a golden hero.

Before I knew it the seventies had arrived and I was already on sabbatical in my chosen haunt of northern Montana. I received word that my expertise in certain subjects was required at a think tank of the US Government. Not desiring the ire of the government, I accompanied stern soldiers, SMPs like John. I was flown to a base somewhere in the Blue Ridge Mountains and thrown together with a number of other crackpot scientists and military eggheads. They weren't alone. They were being guarded by a contingent of the Air Force, under the command of Lieutenant Colonel John Covenant, my brother.

I was pushing 40, a stooped man of learning in well-worn clothes. I was thin, and the hair that had turned completely white at the age of 29 was now receding over my skull and coming out of my ears. John was tall and broad, impressive in his uniform. His hair was short cropped and a distinguished dark gray. I could almost smell his familiar charisma, how everyone fawned and cringed, bringing back memories of taunts and nausea and loneliness.

He had very little to say to me, perhaps ashamed of the man I was. It didn't matter after a while though. I became privy to unimaginable secrets at that meeting. I learned of the Roswell Crash and the technology that was retrieved from it, and of the magnitude of the advancements that had been made since then. I also learned of the Citadel Starstation, the orbital weapons platform, and the discoveries it had made. The proposed civilian Mars expedition had been shelved in favor of this high-profile military project, and that was a lucky break for earth. It seemed that Mars was the forward base for another alien race, this one vicious and warlike. The Serpioids, as they were called, were conquerors unlike the Gray aliens that were content to confuse radar and perform the occasional anal probe.

The meeting had been called to formulate some opinions on how to deal with these Serpioids. I was an advocate for diplomacy. I simply felt that we were not ready for an all-out war with another race. I felt that we could not win. The majority of experts assembled there were defense contractors, so the military thinking prevailed. An assessment of immediate attack was made. I went home.

In Montana I went to my cabin in the woods and brooded. I thought that the aggression typical of our species would only bring us ruin now, but I could not know that I would be wrong.

I was alerted to the first stage of the end of the world just like the rest of us- I saw it on the television. A rash of dictators and despots in the third world, and tensions between the US and Chinese were the big news. Everyone seemed ready to go to war with each other. I wondered if anyone knew of the danger from the Serpioid menace, or if anyone cared. Everything seemed to escalate, tempers flaring. I was removed from contact with the world except by the television, which I soon abandoned altogether- there had been no mention of any military action in space, only the rapidly escalating war with Red China. I threw that idiot box out the window and began to take long walks in the woods with my copy of _The Aeneid_.

It was on one of those walks that I received the shock of my life. Stalking my way down an accustomed trail, my nose in the book, I was greeted by the rude sight of on the path in front of me. More specifically, they were boots, shinier than any I'd ever seen.

My gaze went up and I saw my brother. He was in his full dress uniform, and he was carrying an automatic rifle over his shoulder. This was perhaps the first time I have ever seen John Covenant worried. The marks of concern had branded themselves in the lines of his face. This was a different man from the one I had always hated. I still gave him a chilly reception.

"Come to bury me literally this time, John?"

He looked surprised.

"Jesus, David, haven't you heard?"

"Hmph. Heard what, the same old Cool War stuff? I thought you military men would have gotten us killed by the Serpioids with your machismo already." I kept walking, and he was forced to keep pace with me. It galled me that he had no trouble at all.

"David, we never attacked! We tried diplomacy first, like you wanted."

I stopped. Then I turned, and looked into his face. Though he had signs of worry, and he had been tempered with the sort of wisdom that military leaders get, there was still something there of the golden boy. "I convinced them that you knew what you were talking about. You always have been right. But… but it didn't work, David."

"What do you mean?" I had advanced up into his face. I had never done that before, and I don't know why I did that now.

"An initial contact was made with the Serpioid ships in orbit. They wouldn't respond to any communication, and mobilized immediately into Earth orbit. First they destroyed all orbiting satellites, and then destroyed the Citadel Starstation. The nuclear exchange began forty-five minutes ago."

I was speechless, but not for long.

"How did you get here then?"

"I left early, David, to come make sure you were okay." Bastard. "We could have taken them by surprise… their moon base is very small, and they didn't even pay attention to us. But once they knew we knew, they acted and…" He pounded his fist into his leg. It would felled a man had he been boxing. As it was, I just grimaced, and kept grimacing.

"To make sure I was okay… you bastard! So it's all my fault that the world is ending? Is that what you want me to believe? I've had my fill of your fewmets, John, and I won't swallow this much." I pointed to his M19. "You're just looking for an excuse to use that aren't you? You've always wanted to get rid of your embarrassment of an elder brother. Goodbye, John. Rot in HELL!"

On this last word I flung my book in his face. As I turned to run, I saw that it bore the most pained expression I have ever seen, and I doubted for a moment all that I had ever believed about him. But just for a moment. I was running up the trail towards my house, and then I saw them.

There were five men in my path, soldier-types in camo with M19s. Oh no, I thought. John brought the cavalry to get me. I had stopped in indecision when I heard his boots thumping the path behind me, and then his gun began to spit. I knew that he was shooting me, and in the roar of bullets fell to the ground. My mind cleared, and I noticed the men before me had fallen, all filled with holes. John had shot them.

I felt his hand grab my shoulder.

"Are you alright, David?" The concerned look on his face was concern for me. Genuine concern for me. "Those survivalists have a camp up the way. I figured they'd be here for your supplies, so I…"

I was running. John was an athlete, and I am a stooped old scholar, but shame gave me wings. I raced up the path and was gone.

Later, in the woods, I finally came to a point where I could not hear him calling for me anymore. All thoughts had disappeared, and I was experiencing a moment of tranquility that will haunt me forever. I began to walk, and at nightfall came upon the camp.

Stupidly, I had stumbled right into the camp without noticing. Had there been a sentry, he would have shot me. As it was, it seemed that the five John had shot were the only ones left. Their campfire had burnt out hours ago, but there was still food on the picnic table, and the door to the shelter, which was built into a rocky cliff, was still open.

The survivalist camp became my home for a year. It had everything I needed to sustain myself, and more besides. I was a hermit for that year, contemplating nothing and savoring the loneliness.

At last I decided to return to my home. I was sure John had moved in after failing to find me, and I was something of a woodsman myself so the house was amply provisioned. On my mad flight I noticed his truck on the road, stocked with all manner of equipment. John would be fine, like he always was.

I didn't know what to say to him after a year, but as I approached my house I knew he wasn't there. There was no truck, and no smoke in the chimney. When I entered it was a ghost house, clean and neat, but dusty. He was long gone, but had left a cryptic note that said VEGAS, RANGERS. So that was where I began to travel, taking with me very little. It's been years since.

"An interesting story."

The high voice belonged to the Doctor. I hadn't realized I was awake.

"Did I…" Shame brought a blush to my face, hopefully unseen in the dark.

"Indeed. From Cole Porter to the note in your house." I groaned.

My eyes had adjusted to the flickering firelight, and I saw that Dr. Scott and the man in the orange vest were sitting around the fire where my blankets were, along with two of the Rangers.

"You heard everything. You know that I caused the war, that…" I felt surges of fever return, my head swam. Doctor Scott moved to me and pushed me back down in the blankets.

"Take it easy. I gave you antibiotics and a vitamin shot. You're a little unsettled." I felt a prick at my arm, and Scott made a glistening hypodermic disappear. The fog of sedatives moved over my brain, and I relaxed into the blankets.

"Sedatives. He'll be out until tomorrow night. We'll move then."

"You believe all that, Sergeant" asked one of the rangers.

The other Ranger, an older man, replied with a whistle. "I tell you what, Corporal Townshend, Colonel John Covenant is one of the best Rangers in all of New Nevada. I happen to know him, and I also happen to know that he claims to have no brother." He spat into the fire, and it sizzled.

Then the man in the orange vest spoke, his face unreadable. It was the last thing said before a long period of silence around the fire that lulled me into a deep medicated sleep.

"Lighten up, gunny. Family problems are a bitch."


	5. Mystery Hole

**This bit of Wasteland/Fallout fanfic is pretty old, like my other ones. It started off as a collaborative story, with different writers taking turns, but this was the first and only part, until I jumped ahead with the next part, "Siege of Groom Lake". Please R/R- on this one as well as my other chapters.**

MYSTERY HOLE

Somewhere, a bell rang. It was strident, even muted as it was by the twisting and turning of the concrete corridors. Corporal Bigsby hurried toward the elevator, clutching his package tightly. As he rounded a corner, he collided with some form of living wall. The olive drab mass solidified into a cursing behemoth of a Recruitment Officer, Lieutenant Graper.

"Sweet Jesus, Bigsby! You're under my wheels again!"

Bigsby mouthed an incoherent apology that was unheard in the storm of imprecation that continued down the corridor past him. He swallowed, and walked to the elevator. The button was already lit, but in his agitation, Bigsby pressed it several times rapidly. It earned him a strange glance from another corporal who was posting bulletins on a tall board in the center of the room.

The door opened and Bigsby stepped inside. They shut again and the lights in the elevator dimmed for a moment as it lurched downward with surprisingly little noise. Only a moment and it stopped, the door sliding open with a slight whoosh. It was quiet here on the lower level of the Ranger Center, the Sanctuary.

It was an old tradition to place the people in charge below ground, and the tradition was upheld here as well. The lower level, when the Center was a federal prison, had held maintenance, laundry, and storage facilities as well as solitary confinement. It was still dark and dreary despite the lights and neutral-painted walls.

Bigsby carried his package through the vestibule, noticing that there was a similar bulletin board down here. It didn't bear the uniform size and typing the enlisted men and lower-level officers were required to use. These memos were handwritten in the arcane scrawl of majors, colonels, and generals. The slips of paper used were of every size, color, and state of soilage. The lower level of the Ranger Center was almost a different world.

He continued into the long hallway that bisected the level. It was lit by bare, hanging bulbs. He ignored his first set of two doors, which were the offices of Senior General Vargas and Senior General Squid. He stopped at the next set of doors. The left-hand door was Major General Romulus' office, and the right-hand door, which bore the sign "Laundry" was his destination. He knocked on the door timidly, almost losing the package. A voice penetrated the metal door somewhat muffled, barking what seemed to be an invitation to come in.

Twisting the handle, Corporal Bigsby felt a trace of fear. He had never spoken to a general personally, and never visited the Sanctuary. He opened the door.

The room was enormous, and had definitely once been a laundry. It had a high ceiling, and bore evidence of a great number of machines that had once been there. It had been reconverted, and the walls were covered in tasteful wood panels.

Its contents not withstanding, the room showed evidence of some order, though a kind of order produced by a warped mind. A long table in the center of the room was covered with papers in disarray, and his eye was drawn to one of the walls. It bore an enormous map of the United States, though it had been altered and annotated to be almost unrecognizable. There were thousands of notes written on the map, or on slips of paper that had been posted to it. For a moment, Bigsby had forgotten where he was, and as he gaped at the map, he heard a throat clear.

Bigsby's head snapped in the direction of the noise, and saw an ancient rolltop desk in the corner of the room. Major General MacManus was seated there; a giant man in some sort of bastardized uniform. He wore the khaki dress shirt and jacket, but had on a kilt over his extremely hairy legs that ended in plaid socks and combat boots. His face, coarse-featured and stubbly with sandy hair, was turning bright red.

The bottom dropped out of Bigsby's stomach when he realized that he had forgotten to salute the general. He dropped the package from nerveless arms and watched it hit the floor with a look of surprise. He attempted to salute, but his arm flailed uselessly at his head. The general now looked merely bewildered, and Bigsby's line of sight fell to the level of the general's boots as he fell forward in a dead faint.

He woke from the ammonia fumes of a smelling salt, with a wide, rough hand slapping his face back and forth. It was General MacManus. Bigsby saluted, and the general burst into laughter.

"I've seen men go insane from a firefight, Corporal, but I've never seen a man faint at a map."

"I'm sorry, sir, I-"

"Don't worry about it, Corporal." He looked at Bigsby's prone position and sneered. "At ease."

Bigsby stood up hurriedly and saluted again, doing his best to look dignified.

"Sir?"

"Corporal Bigsby… you're the science whiz I heard about, eh? You brought me this package, but who gave it to you?"

"Sergeant Jennings, sir. Sergeant Hattori brought it back with him from his recon."

"Hattori, eh? He's back?"

"He was found dead between here and Highpool. A patrol found him just before a party of scavs got there, sir."

"Hmm… well, this must have been worth something, then. Any other word from his recon group?"

"No sir, not since their last radio transmission."

"When was that?"

"A week ago, sir. They radioed in from the coast, just east of Toluca Lake."

"They made it, then." The general turned to his map and traced a finger to the jagged line that demarcated the new coast of California. "Toluca Lake, now Toluca Island. Home of the Toluca Lake Mystery Hole."

"Mystery hole, sir?"

"Nothing. That's what the recon was there for. To explore the island and its hole."

"Yes sir."

MacManus hefted the package and considered it for a moment. "I take it he wrote my name on the wrapping?"

"We think so, sir."

"Thank you, Corporal. That will be all."

Bigsby saluted and about-faced as the general began unwrapping the package. The young corporal resisted his curiosity until he got to the door, and could not resist a sneak peak as he was shutting the door. General MacManus opened the box, and an astounded look passed on his face. He seemed to be in awe. Rapt in his examination, the general spoke out loud.

"Dear Lord, we need more of this…" He noticed that Bigsby was still there and shot a glare at him. "Corporal Bigsby! I said that would be all!"

"Y-yes sir!" He was about to leave when suddenly the general had grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.

"Wait a minute, Corporal. Run a message to the Senior Generals. Tell them I'm going to be sending a four-man party of my Heavy Infantry to find out what happened there. I'll have it written up in a bit. And ASAP, Corporal." He saluted, and Bigsby returned it. "And Corporal? Outfitting shouldn't take but an hour and a half. Report to me at that time. You'll be heading out at 2100 hours."

Corporal Bigsby felt the bottom drop out of his stomach again as he realized what the general was saying. MacManus looked surprised again as Bigsby fell to the ground in a dead faint for the second time that day.


	6. Siege of Groom Lake

**A sequel of sorts to "Mystery Hole", continuing the adventures of (now) General Macmanus. Wonder if I should continue this one, or just jump to another new story entirely...**

SIEGE OF GROOM LAKE

General Roderick MacManus tightened his belt and secured the long cudgel held there. Night had fallen and with it the Groom Dry Lake Complex. Dreamland's drone fighters had been disabled, but not with EMP, or firepower, but by a set of giant bolas designed by the gauchos who had joined the General in his _guerrito_.

"There's no school like the old school," he muttered to himself. Though the complex as a whole had been subdued, there was no way he'd occupy it just yet. The techs had to investigate every nook and cranny first.

The General was no tech, but he had some exploring of his own to do.

MacManus left his tent, crossing the length of the camp in the frigid Nevada night. At the other end was a series of Quonset huts and low outbuildings. They had been unused by the inhabitants of Groom Lake for quite some time, but were getting some use now. This was the brig.

There were plenty of guards here, and they saluted briskly as MacManus approached. One soldier did not. A double-headed Prussian eagle decorating his lapels, he remained seated at a makeshift duty station, tapping on a pad of paper. He looked up at the General and scowled.

"At least stand up, Colonel Tidewater. Your insubordination is giving me a goddamned rash." The Colonel did just that, but smiling now.

"Ready for the festivities, General?"

MacManus nodded. He adjusted his cudgel and belt again, in an uncharacteristic display of nervousness.

"This could be the greatest thing that's ever happened to us, you know. I've said it plenty of times, but it's true. I still don't look forward to hearing what I'm sure we'll hear." He strode forward into the prison complex without further ado.

It was bright, surprisingly. There were floodlights in this courtyard, darkened by age, but it had only taken a few minutes' work by some of the techs to get them going again. There wasn't much to see here, just a few more soldiers and the other side of the buildings. The General knew right where he was going, and Colonel Tidewater trotted to catch up, four guards in tow.

Two more guards- how could he even think about keeping their names straight- admitted them to the largest of the outbuildings. There, beyond a reinforced interior door was a room lit by a bare bulb, and in it, the prisoner. MacManus unbarred the door and swung it wide. The prisoner looked up at him, and his smirk disappeared as soon he saw the General loom over him.

The prisoner was a small man with a tight helmet of red hair, and dimpled cheeks on a freckled face that made him seem like a leprechaun or something.

He had been found working in some sort of control center, in a white paper coverall that was now covered in dirt, dust, and some sort of orange smear.

"Tidewater!"

"Sir?" MacManus bent down to look at the cowering prisoner's clothes. Tidewater walked closer just as MacManus sniffed the dirty coverall.

"What is this substance?"

Tidewater's grin was unreadable. He was either intensely embarrassed or greatly amused. "Pizza grease, Sir."

MacManus stood and shook his head. He leveled a huge, stubby finger at the prisoner. "It's one thing that you guys have complicity with one of our oldest enemies, but this…" He drew the cudgel with blinding speed and poked the prisoner in the gut with it. "The world ended, and almost every man-woman-and-child died with it. Yet somehow, you have pizza. AND YOU'RE NOT SHARING!"

He was bellowing, then, and poking the prisoner repeatedly. The little man had gone from trembling and shaking to resolute despair. MacManus put the cudgel away and turned his back on the prisoner. The little man sighed, and MacManus knew that he was going to spill his guts. It was a little surprising that he would be break so soon, but the real surprise came when the speech let loose.

The General actually jumped. "Sweet soul sister, what the hell is that noise?"

Colonel Tidewater's grin was pure glee now, as if he had just been waiting for the joke to resolve itself, so he could deliver the punchline.

"Hungarian, sir."

MacManus covered his face with his hands and sighed much like his prisoner had. "Hungarian… are they all Hungarian?"

Tidewater nodded. "Corporal Talent has only a passing familiarity with Hungarian. Something about dissimilarity with the other Slavic languages. He says with uninterrupted study and full cooperation with the prisoners, he can be fluent in a week."

"Goddamit, we don't have a week, and these bastards will hardly cooperate without us being able to communicate, unless…"

"Sir?"

The General suddenly jerked himself upright, his eyes shining. A deep smile soon followed. He punched the Hungarian good-naturedly in the arm, which was followed by the prisoner's frightened whisper. "Get one of our birds northwest to the Hawthorne Ammo Plant. I want you to personally talk to the Abbot of Hell Buddha Monastery and ask to borrow a monk named Brother Tengu. Remind our friends of the Third Treasure." Tidewater looked confused, but MacManus continued. "While you're there, if any of the masters from the Lancet of Jade Tower want to tag along, they are most certainly welcome. Get going, Colonel, ASAP." The General cracked his knuckles. "I need to think. Colonel Spector will remain in charge of work in the compound, and Major Arnold will have command of everything else. That is all."

"Mac… I mean, General… why me?"

MacManus gave him an apprising look. "Because of your sweet disposition, Colonel. Now get the hell out of here!"

With that, the General walked into the night.


End file.
